Marcus E NDE

Experience Description

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Chapter 8 – An Accident in Michigan

Our mother was upset, even angry. Looking back on it, I don’t blame her.

We had what all school children cherish: a long, four-day weekend that included two days out of class. President Washington’s Birthday—this being a time when the nation still honored his birth—was to be celebrated on Monday, and the teachers had conveniently scheduled an in-service day for Tuesday. We would be out of school until Wednesday. As we often did, we would be going to Grandma's house for the long weekend, getting out of town and enjoying time with her.

I don’t recall too much about the weekend. On Friday after school, I had gone downtown to buy some new records. I loved music and was always adding to my collection of 45s. There were two stores in our little town where you could buy the latest rock ‘n’ roll records. After looking through the rack at the first store, I almost bought *Stagger Lee* by Lloyd Price. It was the new number one record on the pop charts. Not certain what else I wanted, I left the first store and went across the street to the second. Still not finding what I might want, I returned to the first.

In those few minutes, the last copy of *Stagger Lee* had been sold. I never did purchase it. Instead, I bought *Venus* by Frankie Avalon and *Charlie Brown* by the Coasters. They were the number two and three records, and I always tried to buy the top chart hits. I was building a nice collection of music in a very methodical manner. That is a trait that has remained with me all my life.

On Saturday, we drove to Grandma’s in the morning, planning to return home on Tuesday, early enough for us to get a good night’s sleep before school on Wednesday. I had almost not gone. Mike, one of my closest friends, had suggested I spend the weekend at his house. I mentioned it to my parents, but in the end, dismissed the idea and went with the rest of the family. Besides, I always enjoyed going to Grandma’s house and seeing her. The house held my earliest memories and had always been a source of comfort, even if, at the age of twelve, I could never have articulated such thoughts.

Grandma lived in a little town in Michigan where my mother had been raised, where my parents had married, and where, at the Community Hospital, I had been born. It was a sixty-mile drive, and back in those days of two-lane highways, it took nearly an hour and a half—an eternity for a kid. The drive always seemed to take so long.

After so many years, there is little I recall about the weekend—until Tuesday evening. We were supposed to go home early, but Mom and Dad had gone out for dinner with my Uncle and Aunt. They went up to a restaurant they enjoyed.

We waited patiently for Mom and Dad to return so we could drive home. The evening grew late, then very late. At some point, Grandma had my sisters put on their nightgowns and got them into bed. I told her I didn’t want to go to bed and stayed dressed. I eventually fell asleep on the living room couch.

They didn’t return until well after midnight—now early Wednesday morning, February 25, 1959. Dad was in no condition to drive, so as we were awakened and herded to the car, Mom got behind the wheel. Dad sat in the middle of the front seat, and I took the right-front passenger seat. Carol and Sharon, in their nightgowns, lay down in the backseat of our yellow 1955 Buick Special and returned to sleep. Resting my head against the car door, I fell asleep again as we pulled away from Grandma’s house and headed east on Highway 112 toward home.

We never made it.

I learned much later that Mom and Dad were quietly arguing about his having had too much to drink. My father was not an alcoholic, nor a habitual drunk, but on occasion could "get carried away," as Mom would sometimes refer to it. That night, he had overdone it again, and Mom was not happy.

The weather had been inconsistent—not unusual for a February in Michigan. It had snowed, then a warm sun had melted some of it, leaving the highway dry. We had gone about six miles, reaching the edge of another small, rural town, Quincy. Ahead of us was a car moving slowly, so as they argued quietly, my mother went to pass, pressing the gas pedal hard to the floor. Just at that instant, the car hit black ice—a common occurrence when a warm winter sun sets and the evening returns to freezing temperatures. The combination of sudden acceleration and the ice caused Mom to lose control. The car swerved across the highway, off the road, and hit a large oak tree dead center.

In those days, cars lacked seatbelts and had metal dashboards.

My father was a brick mason by trade—extremely muscular and as strong as any man. He instinctively placed his left hand on the dashboard, locked his arm, and pushed his left leg straight against the floor to brace himself. As he did, he flung his right arm across me to protect me from the looming impact. We were traveling forty to fifty miles per hour.

In my mind’s eye, I can see the events unfold. In the milliseconds following the stop, the front of the car collapsed, driving the engine back into the firewall and the transmission up through the floorboard. I was still asleep. My memory at that point is of a sensation that someone had yanked me out of the seat by my shirt. My father’s attempt to resist the g-forces was hopeless. The shock of the impact traveled up his left arm, separating his sternum and snapping five ribs, while simultaneously shattering his left kneecap. I was flung forward, and my right forehead smacked full force into the metal dashboard. The right side of my head exploded. It was 1:00 a.m.

We were fortunate that another accident had happened shortly before ours in the same location, so a policeman was sitting in his patrol car, waiting for a sanding truck. Why the dangerous spot wasn’t marked with a flare remains a puzzle.

My memories of the accident are limited, yet vivid, even today. I recall opening my eyes and the glare of the headlights on the snow hurting my eyes. They say I started talking while still in the car, asking how everyone else was and commenting that Dad always said he intended to drive the Buick until the wheels fell off—and it looked like we had. What puzzled me most was the way it seemed to be raining inside the car. My face felt wet, covered with a warm, flowing liquid that soaked my shirt and pants. It had a metallic taste, which was strange.

Looking forward through the windshield, I saw a policeman pass in front of the car, going from my left to my right around the tree. He opened the door. Cold night air flowed over me as he lifted me out, cradling me in his arms, my right cheek against his badge. I remember the cold metal against my wet skin. He said to my parents, “The boy is hurt real bad.”

The policeman was a Michigan State Trooper who decided calling an ambulance would waste precious time if I was to survive my head injury. He got me into his car, laying me on the backseat while my sisters sat in the front. My mother helped Dad into the backseat, with my head on her lap and my feet on his. The trooper raced to the Community Hospital, which was only six miles away. It couldn’t have taken more than a few minutes with his siren and lights flashing.

My sisters later recalled looking back at me and seeing my brain. A five-inch section of my right frontal skull—from just above my right eye to the top of my head—had detached, exposing my brain. Blood poured from the wound with each heartbeat. By the time we reached the hospital, Mom’s lap, the backseat, and the floor were soaked.

Upon arrival, I was rushed to surgery. The doctor on duty was the same doctor, who had delivered me twelve years earlier.

After examining me, the doctor told my parents he knew what needed to be done but had never performed the surgery. The best option was to take me to the bigger hospital, where experienced neurosurgeons were available. Dad asked which he recommended. The doctor said, if it were his son, he would go to Ann Arbor, home to some of the best neurosurgeons in the world. One hospital was forty miles away; the other hospital was nearly ninety. The risk was that I might not survive the trip.

My parents chose Ann Arbor, wanting to give me the best chance for recovery.

At some point during this discussion, I lost consciousness. My Uncle later told me that the doctor slapped my face hard to wake me; so hard he thought it might kill me. My uncle and aunt had arrived to take my sister's home.

I was placed in an ambulance with a medical attendant. With my parents beside me and a police escort leading the way, the driver sped at nearly one hundred miles per hour, clearing main streets as we passed through small towns. We raced along Highway 112, where we passed our wrecked car. In thirty minutes, we had traveled halfway.

Later, my parents told me the driver once lost control on ice, spinning 360 degrees. Dad always said, “I thought that was it—we’re all going to die.” But the driver regained control without slowing.

Years later, Mom recalled that as we neared the hospital, she couldn’t keep me awake. I appeared unconscious and unresponsive. Her instructions had been to keep me awake. They gave her an ice pack to rub on my face, then on hers to stay conscious. I was on IVs, receiving blood, but not fast enough to replace what I was losing. The gurney and pillow were soaked. I complained about the wet bed, but by the time we reached Ann Arbor, I had stopped talking or moving.

We made the ninety-mile trip in one hour. Two hours after impact, I was near death. The medical team worked to stabilize me before surgery. Years later, Dad learned I had received thirteen units of blood. My head was shaved, and the surgery began.

While I was in surgery, Dad had his leg casted and ribs taped. Mom got on her knees and prayed, promising to give up everything if I lived normally.

The surgery lasted from 3:00 a.m. until nearly 11:30 a.m. The surgeons removed shattered skull fragments, stopped the bleeding, and faced a major decision. The impact had crushed part of my right frontal lobe—damaged beyond repair. Using a scalpel, they removed a walnut-sized portion. Blood vessels were repaired to prevent further bleeding, and the skull fragments were reattached.

In similar injuries, the standard practice was to replace the damaged skull with a steel plate. The problem for a child was that additional surgeries would be needed as I grew.

At the time, the neurology department was testing an experimental method that involved using a bone marrow “glue” to reassemble the skull, supported by a silver wire mesh. Over time, the wire would be absorbed, and the repaired skull could grow naturally. Few hospitals used this technique. Had I gone to Battle Creek, I likely would have gotten a steel plate. The risk of the longer trip had been worth it.

After reassembling the skull, the skin flap was sutured back with 350 fine stitches. I was moved to intensive care until stable enough for a regular room.

The surgeon told my parents I had survived. They expected me to wake within twenty-four hours. Dad asked about coma risks. The doctor said it was unlikely but couldn’t rule it out. He predicted six weeks in the hospital and six months of recovery, with the goal of returning me to as normal a life as possible. When Dad pressed for odds of full recovery, the doctor said it depended on how I woke. Being young gave me the best chance.

Once I was stable, my parents were advised to rest at a nearby hotel. Exhausted, they managed some sleep.

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My memories of the accident—being removed from the car, the trip to the hospital, and the race to Ann Arbor—are vivid but bizarre.

What follows is my recollection. To this day, I don’t know how much was real or imagined, but the memories remain clear.

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As I sat in the car, puzzled by the warm “rain,” and as the trooper approached, I was suddenly catapulted backward—as if attached to a stretched rubber band and released. I felt incredible acceleration, hurtling through darkness on my back, with a sense of traveling along a runway.

My body slowly rotated left until I faced the ground, watching the runway speed beneath me. The velocity was unbelievable—like a human rocket soaring above. I wasn’t afraid, only amazed.

The acceleration slowed, and as my speed decreased, I became aware of a bright light ahead. I tried to look at it but couldn’t. It was dazzling, powerful—something I desperately wanted to see. Instead, I kept rolling until I came to a stop on my right side, suspended in darkness.

Ahead of me stood shadowy figures. I recognized my grandfather, wearing a top coat and hat, just as I remembered him. My grandmother stood beside him. She said, “No, it’s not his time yet. He needs to go back. He has important things to do.” It puzzled me—both had died years earlier.

Suddenly, I was flung forward again—back toward the car—like a rubber band snapping. I tumbled as before, returning through the rear window, settling into my seat just as the trooper opened the door. Cold air washed over me as he lifted me out, cradling me against his badge. He repeated, “The boy is hurt real bad.”

My next memory is being placed in a pod-like cocoon, surrounded by flashing red and white lights—like a carnival. The pod closed, the music faded, and we began moving. I felt underwater yet could breathe—no resistance, only warmth, and the metallic taste. Leafless, glowing tree branches passed overhead against a black sky.

The pod stopped, opening to flashing lights and deafening calliope music. I was on a carnival ride, surrounded by pale green tiles and young women speaking an unfamiliar language—English, but garbled. Their hands touched me everywhere—chest, stomach, legs. The sensation was exhilarating, almost sexual. The smell of urine mixed with the warm “rain.”

Again, I raced along on the ride, bright lights blinding me. Then I was placed back into the cocoon, the sounds dimming as I descended underwater—deeper and deeper, darker and darker. Yet I could breathe effortlessly.

The blackness thickened as I slowed, then reversed, rising toward the surface. Light and sound returned. The calliope blared as the pod unfolded. I was back at the carnival, dazzled by red and white lights.

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That is where my memories of that night end.

What can one make of such experiences? Was it an out-of-body encounter? Was the light the “white light” others describe? Did my grandparents truly say I had to return? At twelve, I had no knowledge of near-death experiences. Decades later, the memories remain vivid. As people say, “It is what it is.”

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Background Information:

Gender: Male

Date of NDE: 02/25/1959

NDE Elements:

At the time of your experience, was there an associated life-threatening event? Yes
Massive Compound Cranial Fracture. Right frontal area of brain was fully exposed.

How do you consider the content of your experience? Entirely pleasant

Did you feel separated from your body? I clearly left my body and existed outside it
See the narrative.

How did your highest level of consciousness and alertness during the experience compare to your normal everyday consciousness and alertness? All memories are during a period of semi-consciousness or unconscious. See the narrative.
See narrative.

At what time during the experience were you at your highest level of consciousness? Less consciousness and alertness than normal

Were your thoughts speeded up? No

Did time seem to speed up or slow down? Time seemed to go faster or slower than usual
See the narrative.

Were your senses more vivid than usual? No

Please compare your vision during the experience to your everyday vision that you had immediately prior to the time of the experience All images are vague, almost dreamlike.

Please compare your hearing during the experience to your everyday hearing that you had immediately prior to the time of the experience Hearing experiences were fairly normal.

Did you seem to be aware of things going on elsewhere? No

Did you pass into or through a tunnel? Yes
See the narrative.

Did you see any beings in your experience? I actually saw them

Did you encounter or become aware of any deceased beings? Yes
Maternal Grandfather and Paternal Grandmother. Both were deceased at the time of the accident. I had been emotionally close to both of them.

Did you see or feel surrounded by a brilliant light? An unusually bright light

Did you see an unearthly light? Yes
See the narrative.

Did you seem to enter another world? A clearly mystical or unearthly realm
See the narrative.

What emotions did you feel during the experience? Felt very calm. Mostly curious about the unfolding events. I have no memories of any fear.

Did you have a feeling of peace or pleasantness? Relief or calmness

Did you have a feeling of joy? No

Did you feel a sense of harmony or unity with the universe? No

Did you suddenly understand everything? No

Did scenes from your past come back? No

Did you reach a boundary or limiting physical structure? Yes
See the narrative.

Did you come to a border or point of no return? I came to a barrier that I was not permitted to cross; or was sent back against my will
See the narrative.

God, Spiritual and Religion:

What was your religion prior to your experience? Christian- Protestant

Have your religious practices changed? Yes
I do not believe in any formal religion. I am open, however, to very real possibility that there is 'something' after death.

What is your religion now? Unaffiliated- Agnostic

Did your experience include features consistent with your earthly beliefs? Content that was entirely consistent with the beliefs you had at the time of your experience
See the narrative, specifically seeing the images of deceased grandparents.

Did you have a change in your values and beliefs because of your experience? Yes
Have no fear of death. I expect it to be a very interesting experience.

Did you seem to encounter a mystical being or presence, or hear an unidentifiable voice? I encountered a definite being, or a voice clearly of mystical or unearthly origin
See the narrative.

Did you encounter or become aware of any beings who previously lived on earth who are described by name in religions (for example: Jesus, Muhammad, Buddha, etc.)? No

During your experience, did you gain information about premortal existence? Yes
See the narrative.

During your experience, did you gain information about universal connection or oneness? No

During your experience, did you gain information about the existence of God? No

Concerning our Earthly lives other than Religion:

During your experience, did you gain special knowledge or information about your purpose? Yes
See the narrative and specifically the comment from my deceased Paternal Grandmother.

During your experience, did you gain information about the meaning of life? No

During your experience, did you gain information about an afterlife? Yes
See the narrative.

Did you gain information about how to live our lives? No

During your experience, did you gain information about life's difficulties, challenges and hardships? No

During your experience, did you gain information about love? No

What life changes occurred in your life after your experience? Large changes in my life
The surgery removed the right frontal lobe of my brain. In November, 2001, I went through extensive neurological testing and evaluation. I learned the significant impact the surgery had on my life. The portion of the brain removed is one of 11 command centers that directs information flow through the brain. I learned that the one removed from my brain controlled the sharing of emotions with the rest of my brain. As a result, I have experienced blunted emotions my entire adult life. I have spent over twenty years working with a neurologist to fully understand and, to a degree, overcome the limitations.

Have your relationships changed specifically because of your experience? Yes
See the above comments. Generally, my life was affected by having blunted, almost flat emotions.

After the NDE:

Was the experience difficult to express in words? No

How accurately do you remember the experience in comparison to other life events that occurred around the time of the experience? I do not know how my remembrance of the experience compares to my remembrance of other life events that occurred around the time of the experience
My memories very vivid, even after sixty-six years.

Do you have any psychic, non-ordinary or other special gifts after your experience that you did not have before the experience? No

Are there one or several parts of your experience that are especially meaningful or significant to you? I have a sense that there is more to life than we expect and death will lead to something else.

Have you ever shared this experience with others? Yes
I first shared it not long after the accident, but to write it down didn't occur until after my neurological examination in November 2001. I'm currently writing a book about my experiences.

Did you have any knowledge of near death experience (NDE) prior to your experience? No

What did you believe about the reality of your experience shortly (days to weeks) after it happened? Experience was probably not real
At first I didn't really think it could possibly be real. As years have go by I have a growing sense that it was real.

What do you believe about the reality of your experience now? Experience was probably real
Over the decades I have read so many experiences of other that are similar to mine.

At any time in your life, has anything ever reproduced any part of the experience? No

Did the questions asked and information that you provided accurately and comprehensively describe your experience? Yes
I think it basically covered everything. The narrative I submitted goes into more details.